


Sugar and Spice

by daisygrl



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/F, Holidays, mildly steamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:14:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27943595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisygrl/pseuds/daisygrl
Summary: On the eve of Hilda's wedding, Zelda sets out to bake her sister's wedding cake. When things go awry, Marie steps in to help her de-stress.Written for WLW Winter 2020: Rituals
Relationships: Marie LaFleur (Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37
Collections: wlw Winter 2020





	Sugar and Spice

Thursdays are for baking. Hilda scours the shelves at the Greendale Food ‘n’ Stuff for anything that’s missing from the pantry, gathers the ingredients, and sets to work zesting, folding, whisking. Clouds of flour float and hang in the air, and wispy sugar threads settle on every surface. It’s the way she likes it. She won’t clear anything up until the dish is in the oven and the timer has been set.

On Thursdays, Zelda hangs around the kitchen for longer than is strictly necessary. She lingers long after the breakfast dishes have been cleared away, and watches the long tendrils of her cigarette smoke mix with the dust motes and the cinnamon powder. She eyes the mixing bowls and makes a nuisance of herself until Hilda finally relents and slides the extra dough across the counter. 

“It’s a shame you won’t be joining us for cinnamon buns on Solstice morning, sister,” Zelda remarks pointedly. The only other indication that she is tense this morning, and that she’ll soon be wearing a hole in the kitchen tile and snapping at ankles, is the lazy flicking of her wooden spoon. Hilda watches flecks of dough flying through the air, and makes a mental note to leave the cleaning up to someone else. She’s got enough on her plate.

“Well, I expect I’ll be halfway to my honeymoon by then,” Hilda offers. She makes sure to keep her tone pleasant, her facial expression neutral. Zelda’s eyes flash, but she stays silent. If she wants a row this morning, she’s not going to get one. At least, not without some serious effort. Hilda returns to her lemon curd. The faucet drips a couple of times, and then stops.

Her final dress fitting is this afternoon, and visions of herself in swathes of ivory charmeuse have been dancing through her head for most of the morning. And it’s a brilliant morning. The winter light streams through every window, and the pale pinks and oranges are watercolours on the frozen ground. 

Zelda retreats for a moment, pausing to nibble on a sugary ribbon that failed to make it onto the pastry. Hilda waits. Whatever she has to say will make its way out eventually. Tact tends to be in short supply when it comes down to the spitting out of exactly what her sister means. Either she declares it bluntly, nuance be damned, or she meanders this way and that, forging a clumsy path through extended metaphor and transparent hyperbole. It’s a mode of communicating that is distinctly Zelda. Her eagerness to be understood is surpassed only by her distaste for exposing her feelings, and plenty of bushes get beaten around as a result.

Mercifully, the moment never comes. Zelda turns on her heel and sweeps out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of crumbs and smoke behind her.

***

“Mon chou? Is something the matter?” Marie drapes herself over the bedspread, extending one leg behind Zelda’s back so she can play with her curls. Zelda closes her eyes and moans softly, tilting her head back. She considers evading the question, but thinks better of it. 

“Things are going to be different this year, Marie.” When she doesn’t hear an answer, she opens one eye and looks to the right. Marie has one eyebrow raised. 

“How do you mean?”

Zelda shrugs, feeling suddenly petulant. She didn’t expect to have to explain herself so many times this morning. Is it too much to ask to simply be understood? “Hilda will be gone, and none of the things we normally do as a family will be the same.” She sounds whiny and childish, even to herself. “I wish she would have picked a better time to leave.” She stops suddenly and raises her eyebrows at the quizzical expression on her girlfriend’s face. “Is there something you’d like to say?”

Marie puts her hands up, feigning conciliation. “Nothing! Nothing. It’s not my place, chérie.”

This again. Zelda huffs in annoyance. “If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have said anything.” She means it. Marie has made a habit of knowing entirely too much - about her, about her family, about the best course of action in any given situation. Far be it for her to ask her girlfriend to keep her opinions to herself.

“It’s natural that you will miss your sister, ” Marie says, kindly. _She’s welcome to gallivant around the entire globe for all I care_ , Zelda thinks to herself, unkindly. 

She stops herself when Marie puts her hand on her cheek. “ - as well as the traditions you have become accustomed to. I think -” she smiles a cheeky smile “- this would be a good opportunity to do something nice for her. Perhaps a baking project? Then you won’t feel so out of your depth when it comes time for you to make those cinnamon buns.”

It doesn’t help that Marie is usually right.

*** 

“Nonsense, Hilda. No one is expecting you to bake your own wedding cake.” Zelda slips into an apron and ties it at the back before Hilda can protest, twisting the mass of her dense, heavy curls into a neat chignon. Normally, she wouldn’t be caught dead with her hair up; it _is_ one of her best features, after all, and she prefers it cascading down the length of her back in all its glory. However, desperate times call for uncharacteristic measures. She refuses to be caught leaving tell-tale red strands in the cake batter.

Hilda blinks in surprise and shakes her head, putting her hands up in surrender. “Alright, Zelds.” She raises her eyebrows ever so slightly, a gesture of skepticism that is not lost on either of them. “I have total confidence in you and your abilities.” Her voice cracks slightly on the last syllable, and Zelda narrows her eyes in response. The simple act of baking a cake couldn’t possibly warrant this degree of alarm. A couple of eggs, some flour, and some milk, and the oven takes care of the rest. Surely, any idiot with half a brain would be capable of figuring it out. 

“Need I remind you that, in addition to being literate and having your many cookbooks at my disposal, I can always use magic?” Zelda snaps. “Honestly, Hilda. I can assure you that I am more than up to the task.” She turns away in a show of scrutinizing the mixer, and rolls her eyes when she hears Hilda’s receding footsteps. This is going to be easy.

***

The first attempt is a disaster. There are sugar crystals and other, more mysterious lumps dispersed throughout the batter, and when Zelda samples it in spite of her reservations, it quickly becomes apparent that the half-teaspoon of salt the recipe called for has become concentrated in one bite. The open window does little to dispel the smoke and soot leaking from the various pots she is trying to supervise, and she has already knocked the smoke alarm from its perch above the kitchen counter in a fit of frustration. 

Against her better judgement, she loads the eyesore into the oven, turning her attention back to the lemon curd and the buttercream. The curd, previously bubbling innocently on the stove, has turned the colour of chocolate pudding, and the buttercream is a liquid, oily mess. She runs her hands through her hair absentmindedly, leaving a streak of flour in her hair, and glances down at her dress. The blue velvet is coated in all manner of sticky substances, from egg to sugar to an early attempt at caramel. This particular dress is one of her favourites. A deep blush crawls across her chest and up her neck, and it makes her stiff lace collar feel itchy and tight. Sweat trickles down her back. The sunlight streaming through the stained glass hits her eyes just as she notices that the oven hasn’t been turned on.

Several hours later, the sponge is cooling on the countertop, and Zelda pokes at it with a toothpick. The smooth, fluffy vanilla chiffon she was envisioning is laced with curdled egg whites, and all five layers have somehow failed to rise, each one flatter and denser than the last. She slams the door of the oven shut and sits heavily on the floor with her back to the counter, knees drawn up against her chest. The day is gone, and for all she knows, the dress fitting is over. Hilda could already be on her way back to view the catastrophe that used to be her kitchen. Through the spaces between her fingers, she catches a glimpse of Marie’s tall, slender frame in the entryway.

Marie chuckles quietly. “Chérie…what happened? I knew you weren’t much of a cook, but this is pretty dire.” 

Zelda winces. “I couldn’t tell you.” Her voice, muffled behind her hands, trembles slightly. “Hilda’s wedding is tomorrow, and all I have to show for myself is a pile of charred scraps.” She chuckles mirthlessly and gestures to the stove. “Oh, and some unidentifiable goo that is _never_ coming off of her cookware.” Her head in her arms, she lets the disappointment wash over her. Hilda’s wedding was supposed to go off without a hitch. Lilith knows, she owes her as much. Instead, the failure that is her baking project is so spectacular that it actually resembles downright sabotage. 

Marie kneels down and takes Zelda’s wrists gently in her hands, rubbing her thumb over her skin. “We will try again.”

Zelda shakes her head vehemently and scowls. “Absolutely not.” 

Marie kisses her. “I promise it’ll be more fun this time,” she teases. As if to prove her point, she nibbles slightly on her exposed neck and unbuttons her collar, leaving a trail of kisses across her clavicle. It’ll leave a mark, and the neckline of the dress Hilda has asked her to wear as Maid of Dishonour isn’t quite high enough to cover it, but Zelda allows it. She smiles slightly in spite of herself.

***

“Mais _non_ , Zelda, you can’t be taking the book so literally!” Marie’s voice is deep and her accent is stronger than usual, both of them having indulged in a glass of wine. Or two. She comes up behind Zelda and presses herself against the red-headed witch, who is busy scrutinizing a measurement of vanilla.

She lifts the spoon up to show her girlfriend. “It says half a teaspoon, Marie.” 

The voudouisante’s dark eyes flash and crinkle at the corners. “First of all, that is a tablespoon. Second -” she takes the spoon and Zelda’s hand, twirling her around and bringing them close, “- everyone knows that a dash is just a dash.” She takes the jar of vanilla, adds several careless drops into the batter, and caps it in one swift motion.

Zelda stares in disbelief at the batter. “First a pinch of salt, next a dash of vanilla, what’s next? A trace of egg? An undetermined quantity of flour?” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Baking is a science, not a whim.” 

Marie chuckles. “I’m glad someone is beginning to appreciate its difficulty.” She cups Zelda’s face in her hands. “I disagree. I would say it is an art, rather than a science.” She taps Zelda’s nose, pink from frustration, and leaves behind a dollop of buttercream. 

Zelda shakes off her hand, but her expression is playful, her eyes bright. “If you’re going to make a mess, you’re going to have to do your share of cleaning it up.” She bites her bottom lip and looks at Marie, willing her to understand what she is getting at.

Marie shrugs and smiles. “I’ll do my best.” She leans in and kisses the tip of her nose, eliciting a rare peal of laughter. “I know your previous attempt was no good, but I am always willing to give you a taste.” Her voice is lowered suggestively, and a small smile is playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Is that what we’re calling it?” Zelda throws her arms around Marie’s neck and hops up onto the counter. “You did promise you would make this fun.”

“One thing you should know about me,” Marie drawls, already undoing the buttons of her dress, “is that I tend to keep my promises.”

  
  


***

“Hell _hounds_ , Zelda! What have you done to my kitchen?” Hilda’s voice rouses an exhausted Zelda, dozing in Marie’s lap. She tries to sit up and bangs her head on the table. 

“Never you mind, Hildie.” Zelda opens her eyes and blinks slowly. Twenty minutes are still left on the timer, but a perfectly acceptable buttercream is cooling on the stove, and a rich, tangy lemon curd is already waiting to be spread onto what appears to be a risen sponge. “The important thing is that we have produced an edible wedding cake.”

She looks around, letting her eyes adjust to the light. Flour coats every surface, and strawberry preserves resembling innards lie in streaks across the countertops. The dishes in the sink number in the dozens, and cigarette stubs litter the tile floor. Both women are covered in frosting and strands of spun sugar. And, if they haven’t appeared already, she’s certain that dozens of bruises are blooming across her inner thighs. It really isn’t her best moment. 

“Edible?” Hilda looks visibly concerned.

Marie shifts her gently to the side and steps over to Hilda, smiling in her affable way. “Ah, Hilda, you worry entirely too much for a woman on the cusp of the happiest day of her life. It is the night before your wedding! Go upstairs, relax, and Zelda -” she looks pointedly at the witch “- will be up to join us in a moment with some tea and a nightcap.” 

Zelda’s brows are drawn together. “I will?”

Marie laughs. “Yes. Now, go on.” She takes Hilda by the elbow and moves to guide her out of the kitchen, but turns back for a moment. “We’ll sort the mess out later. I have some ideas.” She winks.

Zelda collects the antique Crown Derby floral tea set, and sets to work filling a decanter with some bourbon. If the previous afternoon has been any indication, it’s in her best interest to find out exactly what Marie has in mind.


End file.
